


Winter Winds

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, holiday exchange sansan, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5826028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original request - Was for a modern AU sansan. Not a whole lot of guidelines after that. Requested that Sansa be at least 20 and to include plenty of dialogue. If Sansa could be the pursuer all the better. </p><p>Summary - The first chapter was a one shot I created for the Mumford and Sons/Sandor Clegane Challenge on AO3. I had always thought about expanding it into a full blown story and this prompt has given me the perfect excuse to do so. That one shot was inspired by Winter Winds by Mumford and Sons, hence the title. Modern day AU. Sansa is an artist living off her family's money in London. Arya and her share an apartment. Sandor is a sound tech/security guard, with some hidden musical talent, at a very popular night club, that she meets by chance. Joff has recently inherited 3 major nightclubs from his father and is Sandor's employer.</p><p>Rating - M - For eventual smut, violence and Sandor language.</p><p>Trigger Warnings - Drug use, drinking, abuse (not heavy though . . but Joff).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa Stark was on her tip-toes, her tongue stuck between her teeth. Though she was tall for a woman, the box she wanted was just out of reach. The store had thousands of shoes all stacked from floor to ceiling. The particular pair of Martin’s she wanted was, of course, on one of the top rows. She stretched with all of her might, trying to remember the ballet lessons of her youth. It did no good. Every single time her hand came up centimeters short.

 

 

One more try, she told herself. She nearly had it, but her fingers slipped off of the glossy cardboard uselessly, causing her to lose her footing. She stumbled backwards, fearing a fall, but hit a wall instead. Confusion struck her for a split second. There hadn’t been a wall behind her minutes ago. And then a rough male voice came.

 

 

“Oi! Steady on!” the voice shouted.

 

 

She spun around. The wall was black. Craning her neck up she realized it was a man, not a wall, she had staggered into. A giant, skyscraper of a man. He was a pattern of black and gray; black shoes, gray jeans, black shirt, gray eyes, black hair. Long, lanky black hair that was parted sharply to the left and covered half his face. He had a day or two’s worth of stubble on his face. Under one arm he carried a shoebox and a thick, charcoal colored coat. In the other hand, he held a now empty cup of coffee. The contents of said cup were soaking through his t-shirt due to her clumsiness.

 

 

“I beg your pardon!” she cried, fishing in her purse to find some tissues. She found what she needed, and started to blot at his chest. He stared at her incredulously. Her hand slowed in its actions. Was she feeling that right? He felt like steel. She wasn’t trying to exaggerate or be romantic. The monochrome man was solid as brick; no wonder she had thought she’d hit a wall. She poked at him with a finger to make sure. Yes, some sort of man- rock hybrid, she confirmed.

 

 

“The fuck?” he growled, smacking her fingers away.  

 

 

“Sorry,” she yelped, yanking her hand back. What in the world had come over her? That had been terribly rude. He looked something between miffed and intrigued.

 

 

“What’re you after?” he asked, nodding his head at the shelves. His voice was a rumble dragged across a pavement strewn with cigarettes.  

 

 

“Oh! Um, the red Docs. Size four,” she stammered. She was tall but her feet petite.

 

“Pffft. Got enough red already,” he sneered, gesturing to her hair.

 

 

“Yes, well, you asked,” she mumbled. What was wrong with wearing shoes the same color as her hair? He was.

 

 

His hand reached out for the shoes she wanted. He didn’t have to stretch at all. The box was eye level with him.

 

 

“Here,” he said, tossing the correct shoes into her arms, and shoving past her.

 

 

“Wait! Hang on!” she shouted. He turned to her, tapping his foot.

 

 

“Let me buy you another cup of coffee at least,” she smiled. The large man grunted and walked away around a corner. Was that acceptance or refusal? She stood, puzzled and still. His head poked back from around the stacks of shoes.

 

 

“You coming?” he barked. She jumped and ran after him. At the till he gestured for her to go first. While she waited on him to finish his purchase, she dug her phone out to check her messages. Arya, Gendry and Pod were all trying to get her attention. She skimmed through the texts and started when his voice boomed.

 

 

“Red!” he bellowed, now at the door. “Quit messing about. Haven’t got all day.”

 

 

She bit her lip. What was she doing? She’d just offered to buy a strange, almost aggressively gruff man a cup of coffee. He was older than her but not elderly. He probably had ten or so years on her twenty. But she had spilled his coffee and her finishing school years came back to her, the prim Ms. Lockie whispering in her ear that a polite girl would replace that which she lost, broke, or ruined. And Camden High Street was a public as public got. She would be fine, she reassured herself, stepping through the door, which he held open for her; a quick cup of coffee and she never had to deal with him again.

 

 

On the street, he put on his coat like it had personally affronted him and she stifled a smirk. They had the same attire; a thick, wool peacoat with the same amount of buttons. Only hers was the pale pink of dawn and his black as night. He tugged at the collar roughly, flipping it up around his neck.

 

 

“Where to?” he asked. The bitter wind caught his hair revealing the left side of his face and she bit her cheek hard to stop from gasping. He was scarred on that side. Terribly so, deep twists and valleys of red, blotchy skin covering him from jaw to scalp. It wasn’t a hideous site to her, but it was a shock and her eyes must have said so.

 

 

“Want a better look?” he growled.

 

 

“No!” she automatically answered and then smacked herself internally. “I mean I wouldn’t mind. That is I. . .” she trailed off. She was only digging the hole deeper.

 

 

He rolled his eyes at her. “Come on then. Where’s the coffee?”

 

 

She led him across the street and over a few blocks to her favorite shop. It was a popular spot and there was a wait at the counter. Once they were out of the wind she saw him smooth his hair back down over his scars. He leaned against a wall, ignoring her as the line moved along. Soon, the man at the counters signaled it was their turn to order. He smiled at her warmly.

 

 

“What’ll you have, love?” he asked.

 

 

“I’d like a decaf cappuccino, please, with soymilk,” she ordered, “and whatever he’s having as well, put it on my tab.”

 

 

“For you, sir?” the barista asked.

 

 

She heard her large companion mumble, “Christ, not a sir,” before he raised his voice to answer the man behind the counter.

 

 

“Large. Dark.”

 

 

“Italian, Spanish, or French?”

 

 

“Jesus!”

 

 

“That’s not a brand we carry, sir.”

 

 

“You fucking posh tosser, I’ll –“

 

 

“The Spanish!” she cut in, desperate to stop whatever was happening from escalating. “He’ll take the Spanish!”

 

 

“Cream or sugar?”

 

 

She was certain the barista had a death wish.

 

 

“Black!” both she and the tall man yelled in unison.

 

 

Once they had their cups, they walked to the register to pay. She pulled out a credit card and swore she heard him snort. There were candies lined up by the register, and she grabbed a bag of Jelly Bellys on impulse.

 

 

“Did you want anything?” she offered, pointing to the sweets. He shook his head.

 

 

“Are you sure? I don’t mind, you –“

 

 

“I said no,” he barked.

 

 

“Fine, fine” she answered, taking her credit card back from the pretty girl at the till. “Did you want to sit?” she questioned, pointing out one of the few free tables.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glanced at it and shrugged.

 

 

“Suppose I got a minute.”

 

 

“So, what’s your angle then, Red?” he probed once they had taken a seat.

 

 

“Nothing and my name is Sansa. I spilt your coffee. The proper thing to do would be to get you another.”

 

 

“Proper,” he snorted, taking a gulp of his coffee and grimacing.

 

 

“Is something wrong with it?” she questioned, blowing on her own.

 

 

“It’s hot,” he grumbled.

 

 

“Yes, well coffee generally is,” she stated.

 

 

“You taking the piss?”

 

 

“No, I’m only suggesting you wait a moment before you try to bolt down hot coffee,” she scolded.

 

 

“It’s fucking boiling.”

 

 

She thought it best to let the issue go and busied herself with trying to open her packet of jelly beans. The plastic package wouldn’t give. She pulled and tugged at it and still it wouldn’t open. He let out an irritated noise, reaching across the table to snag the bag of sweets out of her hand. Ripping it open with his teeth, he placed it back in front of her. She stared at him with her mouth open.

 

 

“What?” he snapped.

 

 

“You’re very . . . direct,” she observed.

 

 

“That a problem?”

 

 

“No,” she answered honestly, surprising herself a bit. He was sharp of tongue but he had gotten the shoes down for her. And he had held the door for her. He wasn’t as rude as he wanted people to think he was, she thought. Pouring some of the jelly beans out on the table she offered the bag to him.  When he frowned and shook her head, she dumped a dozen or so of them in front of him anyway. He scoffed, scooping them all up and shoving the entire fistful in his mouth at one time. She stared at him in horror.

 

 

“What?” he asked her again through a mouthful of gooey sugar.

 

 

“That’s  . . . .that was disgusting,” she said in shock. “That had to have tasted horrid. Was it?”

 

 

“Try it,” he dared, grinning at her.  She looked down at her neatly arranged piles of each separate color. She liked lemon the best, then orange, and then green apple. She never ate the licorice ones. Shrugging, she took one each of every color, including licorice, and tilted her head back, like he had done, to knock them back into her mouth. She chewed thoughtful for a total of five seconds before reaching for a napkin to spit the soggy wad out.

 

 

“That was wretched!” she cried while screwing up he face in distaste.

 

 

He laughed at her until he had to rub at his eyes. “Bloody hilarious,” he chuckled.

 

 

It might have been an embarrassing situation but she found herself entranced by his laughter instead. His voice changed when he laughed. It was warm and smooth; rich, dark chocolate instead of gravel and ash. His phone on the table lit up. He grabbed at it, scrolling for moment before he stood up.

 

 

“I gotta run. Shift starts soon. This was. .  . . alright,” he said pointing between the two of them. He pulled out his wallet, which had seen much better days and tossed a card onto the table.

 

 

“You want you could drop by some night. Tell them I sent you. They’ll let you right in.” He saluted her with his coffee. ”Thanks for the cuppa coffee, Red”

 

 

“My name’s Sansa!” she huffed at his backside, while he took off through the crowd. She wasn’t certain if he heard or not. He never turned around. Picking up the card on the table she read out loud, “Sandor Clegane. Security. Sound Technician.”  That was an interesting combination, she mused. He had the build for security no doubt, but the other bit intrigued her. It had his number on it as well and the name of an establishment she wasn’t familiar with.  She drew a finger along the card for a moment before pulling out her phone and typing in his number. Then she pocketed the card and made her way back onto the street. It was time to head home anyway.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2 - The Red Room

 

Friday night and Sansa found herself freezing her tits off outside of a large, bricked building. It was three stories high, with a glaring neon sign flashing the words “The Red Room” in blindingly accurate lights. Her sister, Arya, frowned and grabbed the arm of her boyfriend, Gendry, to try and gain some of his warmth. At least he had slacks to help with the chill; Arya and Sansa had opted for short skirts, thinking they would be admitted into the club without a problem.

 

But there _was_ a problem. A squat, punch-bellied one, in a black suit with a name tag that read “Blount”.  His face was flat, with jowls that sagged, reminding Sansa of the fat hop-toads Arya and their stepbrother, Jon, used to hide in her dresser drawers. They had shown Sandor’s card to the doorman; waited, while he talked into an earpiece and then informed them that Sandor, “hadn’t given his card to a crowd.” Then they’d been pushed to the side and the next couple in line had been addressed.

 

“You should have called him first,” Arya hissed. “It’s been three days. Likely, he forgot.”

 

“Thanks,” Sansa said sarcastically, digging for her phone in the purple clutch she carried. This was embarrassing enough without Arya’s misguided advice to go along with it.

 

“Well, you waited too long! One of the hottest places in town and you thought it polite to wait a few days. Do you know how many of those cards he probably hands out? When will you learn to _move_ your arse with a man!”

 

“Just, shut up, Arya! I’ll fix this.”

 

Gendry kept quiet. And a good thing too, Sansa thought. Her fingers were going numb, and her ankles ached already in her four inch heels. She hated wearing them but loved what they did for the shape of her legs. And if she wanted to get close to eye to eye with Sandor, they would help. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to accomplish with him. But she’d been bored of late, lonely really, and he had seemed nice enough, somewhere under the hair and attitude.

 

And if things didn’t work out with Sandor, maybe there would be a decent bloke to chat with instead. If she were lucky, she might even catch a glimpse of the blonde heir to the The Red Room, Joffrey Baratheon. Sansa hadn’t realized it was _his_ bar she’d been invited to until Arya had flipped her lid over Sandor’s card.

 

“That’s the new Baratheon place!” Arya had shrieked. “And you’ve got an in there?! Jesus, Sansa! Let’s go tonight! Do _not_ let this guy go!”

 

The Baratheons! Sansa had almost spit out the sip of tea in her mouth. _That’s_ who Sandor worked for?! They were one of the wealthiest families in the country and while Sansa’s family also had more than enough money tucked away, they were a bit more . . . discreet about their lifestyle and finances. The Baratheon’s had numerous hotspots all over the city, The Red Room having opened just last month. There was even a television program that had followed the family for the past three years that played on BBC3 every Thursday night. Their nighttime escapades were plastered over every rag in the city most mornings.

 

But we won’t be seeing _anyone_ if we can’t get in, Sansa grumbled to herself. She blew onto her stinging fingers before scrolling through her contacts to find Sandor’s number and sending a brief text.

 

 _Hi. Sorry to bother but I’m outside and can’t get in. It’s Sansa_ …

 

There was an awkward pause for a minute or two while Arya glared and Gendry pulled out a smoke. Sansa shivered under her wrap; nothing more than décor for her dress rather than actual protection from the winter weather. She’d been so stupid to leave her coat at home! Then there was a chirp from her phone.

 

_…Sansa who?_

_From the shoe store…_

_…not ringing a bell._

_I spilt coffee on you…_

_…???_

_You made me eat horrible candy…_

_…Red!_

 

Sansa sighed before typing again. Really! She’d given him her name several times. Either he was dense or teasing. She had a suspicion it was the latter.

 

_Yes, fine. We’re outside freezing…_

_…we?_

_I brought my sister and her boyfriend. I should have asked first. Sorry..._

_…s’alright. Safe thinking. Give me a minute._

 

 

“I think we’re in,” Sansa said, smiling at her two companions.

 

“Yes!” Arya shouted. “Sansa, my favorite sister!”

 

Gendry pointed the fingers holding his cigarette towards the doorman. “Think he wants us.”

 

Blount had a hand cupped over his earpiece. With the other hand, he waved to the three of them hurriedly. As they got closer, Sansa could hear a small voice yelling through the earpiece. Sandor was apparently not pleased. Blount tapped a button on his earpiece and spoke. “I understand that, sir. She didn’t give a name.” –there was more shouting from the earpiece-  “Ah, for fucks sake. Clegane. There. Better?” Blount gave them all a putout look but used a security badge to open the door and let them all through into the interior of The Red Room.

 

The hallway inside was cramped and smaller than Sansa would have expected. The garish, glowing red from outside continued on, covering the walls and carpet around them. A man checking ID’s halted their progress, while a short woman in, unsurprisingly, a red dress asked if they’d like to check their coats. Gendry handed over his, while Arya told the women she could have her leather when she was cold and in the ground. Sansa rolled her eyes at her sister and gave the woman a kind, “no thank you,” while she let her wrap fall from her shoulders into the crook of her elbows.

 

The hallway led to a much larger room. The ceiling had been raised to fit a loft inside the space. An open dance floor was crammed with people and couples sat at tables set into alcoves all around the room. There was still an abundance of red present. The curtains around the tables were gauzy and crimson. But there were blacks, grays and whites to break up the assault of red.  Three bars were on the first floor, two on the second. Arya wasted no time in stepping up to one of them and Sansa and Gendry followed suit.               

 

“I’ve got first round,” Gendry offered, taking his wallet out. Orders were taken and drinks were soon in hand. Arya was already dancing in place before their beverages arrived. As soon as Arya had her drink, she was pulling Gendry to the dance floor.

 

“Come on!” Arya giggled.

 

Sansa stayed in her seat. “In a tick” she called back. “Give my feet a minute to thaw!” Arya shrugged and tilited her head back, draining half her pint in one go. Then she dragged a smiling Gendry into the middle of the crowd.

 

“What? Couldn’t get anyone to buy you a drink, Red?” a male voice rumbled from behind her.

 

Sansa turned to find Sandor looking down at her. The stubble from days ago was gone; the black t-shirt replaced by a navy blue one, though the gray jeans remained and his hair was still parted to cover as much of his scars as possible. One eye looked her over head to toe, then settled on her face, below her eyes. But it wasn’t her cleavage he was staring it. It was her mouth she realized, biting at her lower lip nervously.

 

“I can get my own drinks, thanks,” she said back in a tone harsher than she had meant to give, “but he bought it for me, if you must know.” Sansa pointed at Gendry’s back, lifting her glass to her strawberry stained lips.  “And it’s Sansa,” she mumbled, ready to take a drink.

 

Sandor’s hand shot out so fast, she squeaked in surprise. He grabbed the glass from her hands, his eyes distrusting and angry. “You know him?” he growled, sniffing the pink liquid.

 

“Of course I do!” she exclaimed, irritated. “I’m not that stupid as to take a drink from a stranger. He’s my sister’s boyfriend.” Sandor nodded and passed the martini glass back to her.

 

“Just doing my job.”

 

“A little _too_ well, I’d say. I don’t need protecting.”

 

“I wasn’t-” he started then stopped, chewing the inside of his cheek and looking at the crowd. “I can’t help it. It’s what I do. I can tell you who’s going to cause trouble tonight and when. That one” –he pointed to a sandy blonde in a sports coat- “thinks he’s a big shot, slipping a knife past the doors.”  Sansa watched while two men dressed in black approached the man in question, each grabbing one of the man’s arms with force and escorting him quickly from the dance floor, before a scene could erupt. “That one,” Sandor continued, pointing out another man, “that one’s got enough blow in his pockets to light this entire place up.” 

 

Sansa took a sip of her drink, waiting on another pair of suits to do the same as they had with the first man. After several minutes nothing happened and Sandor remained silent. “Why didn’t you have him removed?” she asked.

 

Sandor shrugged. “People want to live out their fantasies. Their fairy tales,” he sneered. “Boss doesn’t mind if they need a little pixie dust to get them there. Boss’s house, boss’s rules. No weapons, no ladies harmed. Beyond that, it’s their business, not ours. They don’t come here to stay on the ground. They come here to fly and that puts bread in everyone’s pocket.”

 

Sansa wondered if it was the drugs or the dreams that made Sandor’s face contort in disgust. She wasn’t interested in party games herself, but had never passed much judgment on those who partook. And what was wrong with dreams? Everyone needed dreams. Didn’t they? She tapped a single, smartly polished nail on the stem of her glass thoughtfully, the sound reminding her of a certain fairy’s tinkling.

 

“There’s so many of them,” Sansa observed. “You can’t know everyone’s secrets.”

 

“I do,” Sandor replied with no hesitation what so ever.  “I know who’s gonna drink themselves sick, who’s gonna need an ambulance out of here. Who’s fucking who and who’s leaving with who.”

 

“Really?” Sansa challenged, getting a bit annoyed by his overconfidence. He sounded arrogant. “Then who am I going home with tonight?”

 

His head swiveled slowly to look at her. There was an amused smile on his face, and a knowing look in his eyes. “No one,” he stated. “You’ll have two drinks, go collect your drunk sister, be home and in bed by midnight like a good little girl and listen to the two of them fucking in the room across the hall from yours, wondering what it’s like to scream like that for a man.”

 

If Sansa hadn’t been brought up better, she would have thrown her drink in his face. How dare he talk to her like that! She blushed and stammered in her seat. But what did she truly have to be angry about, she thought sadly. He was right.

 

“You’re over eighteen and you still eat candy at a coffee shop. Your lip gloss smells like bubble gum and your wearing knickers,” Sandor continued, while Sansa wished she could drown in her drink. He could tell she was wearing underwear?  Just how observant was the man? And how long had he been looking at her rear?

 

Then Sandor’s eyes changed. For a fraction of a second he seemed . . . impressed. “You actually came here to dance and drink. Nothing else,” he affirmed.

 

“You said I could. I didn’t think there was hidden meaning behind it.”

 

“There wasn’t.” He was back to watching the crowd.

 

“I’m keeping my knickers on.”

 

“I know it,” he grinned.

 

“And I’m having _three_ drinks!” she pledged, taking a large gulp of her Cosmo for emphasis.

 

“Course you are. Can’t let me get it all right can you?” he teased.

 

“Are you always this charming with women?” Sansa answered. She wasn’t completely inept at flirting. If he wanted to verbally spar she could give him a fair game.  “Insulting their night-life intelligence and checking out their panty-line?”

 

“Only with the ones he likes,” a voice rang out. A man just a few inches taller than Sansa minus her heels approached the both of them. If Sandor’s look was a storm brewing, this man’s was the starless sky in the dead of night. He was paler, and less bulky, not to mention a good hand or two shorter than Sandor. There was a casual grace in his walk like a cat’s uncaring step. He knew, just as the cat did, _exactly_ where he was going, even if he was completely lost. Sandor gave the man a dark glare. “Not going to introduce me to your new bird?”

 

“Piss off, Bronn,” Sandor growled.

 

“Ah, now, don’t be an arse,” the man, Bronn, cautioned. “She looks as if she can handle herself. She’s been talking to you for more than five minutes and you’re still dry and she’s not crying. Better marry this one.”

 

Sandor pushed himself off the bar he’d been leaning against with lightening speed. One fist grabbed at Bronn’s shirt, the fabric twisting between his knuckles. “Last chance to fuck off,” he rasped.  His hair had swept back from his face, giving Sansa another glimpse of the ragged skin he tried to keep hidden.

 

Sansa wasn’t sure why she reached out. Looking back on the night, it seemed as if her body moved on its own; drawn to Sandor’s wrath like a moth to a flame. It was just as cliché as it sounded. She gently laid her hand on his wrist. “Please,” Sansa said quietly. “He’s not upsetting me. Please.”

 

Sandor’s head cocked to the side, first looking at her eyes and then her hand on him. The skin beneath Sansa’s was hot to the touch. She couldn’t get her fingers around his wrist. Sandor’s grip on Bronn’s shirt loosened and the two men stepped back from each other silently.

 

“Sorry, about that love. He’s got a temper and my mouth runs too much around ‘im sometimes. Maybe he’ll play nice now and introduce us.”

 

Sandor rolled his eyes and grumbled. “Bronn, Sansa. Sansa, Bronn.”

 

“Ah-ha! So you do know my name!” Sansa cried.

 

“Course I know your name,” Sandor said. “You’ve said it only a hundred times.”

 

Bronn had a grin like a Cheshire Cat on his face. “How’s the date going?”

 

“It’s not a date!” Sandor shouted.

 

“He says it’s not a date,” Sansa repeated.

 

Bronn lifted an eyebrow. “And what do _you_ say it is?”

 

Sansa lifted her glass to both men. “Passing time.”

 

“Ha! I like this one,” Bronn laughed, slapping Sandor on the shoulder. Sandor growled in his throat, staring at the spot where Bronn had touched him. “Sorry, sorry!” Bronn apologized. “I know. Boundaries. Look, I came over here to see if you’d fill in for Trant.”

 

“Again?”

 

“He’s coked out of his gourd, man! Locked ‘imself in the loo and won’t come out. You’ve got to help us out! You can have his share of the green. We’re on in twenty.” Sandor didn’t bother to speak, his face showing disinterest and boredom. “We can do a few of the ones we worked on?” Bronn tried. “Give Jaime and Brienne a break for a song or two? You and me. Some of the stuff from last weekend at your place? Come on, be a mate and help us out.”

 

“Five songs. If I’m your ticket out of this I get to do half the set with my material.”  Sandor had taken a toothpick from a crystal dish on the polished, granite countertop behind him. He stuck it between his teeth and waited.

 

“Two,” Bronn countered.

 

“Four.”

 

“Three.”

 

“ _Four_.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell. Fine! Four! Can we move now?” Bronn started to usher Sandor from the bar, without actually touching him. He cast Sansa a look over his shoulder. “Sorry to take ‘im from you, love. Stick around and watch. I’ll have ‘im back in an hour.” Sandor waved at her without turning around. Arya’s laugh could be heard over the music. Sansa emptied her glass in a final gulp and shook her head.  There was no way she would have ever pegged the scarred, angry man for a musician. This was going to get interesting.

 

 

 

 


End file.
